


Pixie

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond sees his brother change and Maglor remain steady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pixie

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Though Elrond’s past is difficult, he tries to see silver linings where he can, tries to be bright and _positive_ , tries to be the strong one when Elros comes to him with tears or shouts. He practices with a sword but tries to calm himself in equal measure, taking pleasure in life’s gentler things, like the gardens, paintings, and the fashionable robes and jewelry he’s often put together with his own hands. But what calls to him most is _music_ , not just any songs but _Maglor’s_ , and nothing speaks to him so reverently as Maglor’s voice wrapped around a melody. 

No matter what Elrond’s doing, he stops when he hears these rare moments, where Maglor’s cares slip away long enough to bloom in a harp or lyrics. Today he hears them from the balcony where he was recording a story—one Elros told him as a child that he wants to make sure he remembers—and his scroll is automatically set aside. He takes off through the modest corridors of their home, in search of the siren that calls to him. 

He finds, instead, his brother. They nearly collide around the end of one corridor, Elrond sweeping forward in a near-dream and Elros hastily running, as he so often does: time seems a different thing to him. They bounce off each other after impact, Elrond gasping and Elros grunting, and he stumbles one step back to eye his twin. 

Elros, who once looked indistinguishable from Elrond, is now a shock to see. He smiles the way he always has, his handsome features genuine and excited, side-lit with the setting sun through the tall windows. He’s grown out of all his softness in recent years, no longer an elegant youth but a clear _man_ , in both senses of the word. The new jagged edges around his face only highlight that sharpness.

His hair is now cropped shorter than Elrond’s ever seen. The dark waves have become shorn strands, mussed in all directions, too little to be pulled back. Elrond’s own hair sweeps down his shoulders, nearly to his waist, as Elros’ did the last time they saw one another: barely a few hours ago. Now Elros has become a whole other creature. Elrond’s sure he’s gaping, surprised and perhaps a little horrified, and Elros grins wider for it, always the brash, rebellious one. 

“You like it, then?” Elros asks, without leaving any time for Elrond to answer. “I’m going to show Maedhros—he refused to cut it for me, so I did it myself with a knife.” There’s a pause after, but Elrond still has nothing to say. He would normally feel obliged to say something nice, but Elros doesn’t seem to need any votes of confidence. He must see that Elrond’s frozen, because he nods his head curtly and walks around Elrond and right down the hall, around another corner and gone again, leaving Elrond rooted to the spot. 

The music’s ended. But Elrond’s spell is already broken. He has to shake his head to clear away the image. He isn’t sure what part of it is eating at him so greatly—that Elros looks so _different_ than himself or anyone Elrond’s ever known, or that now they’re different from each other. The older they grow, the more the distance between them becomes, and it’s... unsettling, at times. 

Unfortunately, it’s inevitable. They’re twins, not the same person, and Elrond knows more than most that life is subject to great change. With a sharp exhale, he forces himself to move on, turning back to head the way he came. 

He can’t help thinking of his own hair while he walks. He has two thin braids over his ears today, ones that Maglor twisted in for him last night, and he plays with one self-consciously. He means to return to the balcony where he left his letter, but instead, he finds his feet headed to Maglor’s quarters.

He’s nearly there when he finds Maglor turning into the same hallway, likely headed from the courtyards. He tends to play his harp there, where the sun and birds can reach him. He smiles when he sees Elrond, and Elrond stops in his tracks, waiting for Maglor to reach him and wanting to return the smile.

He doesn’t quite manage. By the time Maglor’s directly in front of him, Elrond is fighting a frown, and Maglor mirrors it, asking perceptively, “Elrond, what is wrong?” 

Nothing, technically. Elrond wants to shake it off, but his eyes inevitably stray over Maglor’s sleek, black hair, straight and silken, so very _beautiful_ , like all of him. Elrond has grown nearly as tall as him and has a good view of the subtle braids woven around the sides of his head, adorned with a silver clip in the back. Those sorts of jewels, which their hosts have so kindly forged for them, will no longer work on Elros. But Elros doesn’t often wear the same effects as Maedhros and Maglor anyway. He tends to dress in tunics and trousers, a sharper growing contrast to the long robes that Elrond dons, often reminiscent of Maglor’s own. Maglor sees Elrond’s busy hand and reaches out to clasp it, curling tight around Elrond’s delicate fingers, clutching his own braid. 

“Elros has cut his hair,” Elrond admits, knowing full well how strange it sounds. Something so insignificant shouldn’t affect him like this. But Maglor’s eyes soften like he understands. He’s been good to Elrond that way. 

With a sigh, Maglor murmurs, “I wonder if he is trying to emulate Maedhros. Although Maedhros had a very different reason for his cut locks than Elros likely realizes...”

Elrond doesn’t ask. Maedhros’ secrets are his own, like Maglor, and Elrond _knows_ that they share a troubled past. Elrond also doesn’t mention that what really troubles him is watching Elros grow more and more like _Men_ , and less like the elves with whom they were raised. 

With one hand still around Elrond’s, Maglor lifts the other to run back through Elrond’s hair, fingertips sliding elegantly along his skull, sweeping down and over his shoulder, not tugging even once, as Maglor himself brushed it through only last night. As though to switch the subject, he asks lighter, “Will you keep your own long?”

Before today, Elrond wouldn’t have considered anything else. Now, unsure of many things, he asks, “Should I?”

Maglor smiles. It’s a broad, handsome thing—he has such sincere and warm features. He threads his fingers back to continue playing with Elrond’s locks and answers, “You are very beautiful this way, although, of course, your appearance is your own decision.” After a short pause, wherein Elrond fights the blush that stirs along his cheeks, Maglor adds, “However, I would confess my own disappointment if I no longer had occasion to brush it for you.”

Maglor’s hand falls away, and Elrond catches it. He lowers the second alongside it, so he can hold them both together. It’s good to feel Maglor’s sturdy serenity before him: Maglor gives him much. In a small voice, Elrond asks, “Will you brush it for me now?” They’ve both just seen there’s no need for it—no tangles—but Elrond could use the company and the reminder of who he is. 

Maglor nods and gently pulls Elrond into his chambers, where their brush dutifully awaits.


End file.
